


bring me your lust in the morning, and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Galra Emperor Keith (Voltron), M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Series, Power Play, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “I'm happy to serve you.”"You are," the emperor says, "and because of that, I will grant you a favor."
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	bring me your lust in the morning, and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Bilquis scene from American Gods. Y'all know what happens.

Even this early in the morning, it’s another round of paperwork, the endless swiping and tapping on his tablet. There’s a never-ending list of duties to check off, of people to see, of meetings to run, and this day is no exception. Ever since Shiro’s arrived on Daibazaal, he can barely get through an hour without someone _summoning_ him.

But still, he’s happy to help. He works with his mind as equally hard as his hands, and he gets to step outside more than once a week, even if he’s now flanked by mostly silent guards, despite their armor and belted weapons that should clank. Earth is far away, but Shiro doesn’t exactly miss it; he can’t even see it if he stands from the highest tower. Instead, he can spot the planet that had vanished thousands of years ago, restored, and the famous, fiery gold-purple waves that are akin to Earth’s aurora borealis. He’s told, against that backdrop, the Kral Zera flame is a sight to behold, but he won’t know until tomorrow.

There’s a faint _ping,_ and Shiro takes in the message on the corner of his screen before swiping it away and rising to his feet. He straightens his jacket; he doesn’t wear armor like most, but it’s formal all the same—the collar almost hitting his chin, fabric brushing against the insides of his knees. It’s all dark colors, save for a gold pin that fastens the top, more for show than practicality. It makes his silver hair stand out even more, and he glances quickly at a mirror before slipping out into the hallway.

His gait is seemingly unhurried, but his steps are quicker than what they normally would be. He runs into no one, for which he is glad—not that the palace’s occupants are unpleasant; it’s simply because he doesn’t wish to waste time when he knows someone is waiting for him.

There are guards in front of the heavy double doors, and they each—in perfect unison—step aside to slowly pry them open. They do not announce him; everyone knows who he is, least of all the person inside, and he does not appreciate unnecessary ceremony.

The path to the throne is empty, save flickering torch-like appendages on the walls. There’s no long retinue of pin-straight armies on either side to watch him move slowly down the aisle, heel to toe, as court protocol demands. But unlike most, Shiro’s eyes are locked straight forward, arms steady at his sides; the Galra loathe weakness, even now, and avoiding one’s gaze can lead to challenges of honor.

Once he reaches the appropriate distance, Shiro sinks to one knee, arm crossed over his chest, right hand folding into a fist.

The emperor is in full battle armor, with a deep purple cloak that emphasizes his eyes. Some say those eyes resemble flowers, jewels, galaxies—but not in the emperor's hearing. He has no patience for poetry or slick flattery; it was a quality Shiro had immediately respected. 

His dark hair is braided in a loop resting around his shoulders. Depending on the clan, braids signaled a family crest, a rank, a romantic commitment—but all clans agreed that uncut hair represented regalness—and this made sense, Shiro often thought, due to the upkeep—as well as prosperity in wealth, stability, and battle. The emperor has a leadership braid, and the subtle twists mark the combined crest of his family name. Shiro had been coached, even well before his trip planetside.

“You may rise,” the emperor says, without a greeting. Shiro sees a flick of his fingers, and follows the movement, planting his feet in a rest position more familiar to those at the Galaxy Garrison.

“Takashi Shirogane,” the emperor says, and a rush runs through Shiro at the mere sound of his name. He speaks it as if it’s something he’d chosen for Shiro, another order he gives without blinking. “I hope my summons wasn’t inconvenient.”

“No, my emperor,” Shiro intones. “I'm happy to serve you.”

"You are," the emperor says, "and because of that, I will grant you a favor." 

The suddenness startles Shiro. "I do not do this for favors." 

"Some are embarrassingly transparent about it,” the emperor muses. “They come all the way to this quadrant on one knee to beg for favors they haven’t earned, because of their name or title or imagined suffering, similar to Lubos.” Shiro hides a private smirk; he’s not sure how Lubos didn’t remember their faces when he appeared before the Coalition with a plea for mercy. “But you deserve a reward." 

“I won't ask for one.”

“Then I shall decide for you.” The emperor tilts his head. “Remove your coat.”

As in all things, Shiro obeys, albeit slower than usual. He unhooks the clasps, bearing the black undershirt underneath, with its sleeves stretching all the way to his wrists, and opens the overlapping fold, very carefully. His arm had been redesigned shortly after the war, so it’s less cumbersome to slip it through the right sleeve, but it still catches, occasionally, and he stays silent in apology when he briefly wrestles with the fabric, before allowing the coat to drop onto the floor.

"You're trembling," the emperor observes. 

Shiro digs his nails into his palms. "I'm not," he says. 

"You are," the emperor says. "With anger? With fear? With want?" 

"No," he replies, aware the answer could apply to any of the questions, or all of them. 

The emperor chuckles. “Well. I'll find out. Finish your task.”

His eyes dart upwards. “My emperor?”

In response, the emperor snorts, so condescendingly that Shiro wonders if an eye roll would be next. But the emperor is not so undignified as that, only saying, “Take off your clothes.”

Shiro hesitates for a second, long enough for the emperor to make a move as if to get off the throne, something he looks most displeased about, and the simple gesture makes Shiro leap to obey.

He pulls the hem of his undershirt up, and the fabric lands on the ground next to his jacket with a soft whisper. His hands are steady when they grope for his belt buckle, clinking, and begin to work on his trousers.

Through all of this, the emperor watches, one hand perched on his chin, as if he’s listening to his messages for the day. He doesn’t so much as blink when the fabric pools around Shiro’s ankles, or when the buckle hitting the floor causes a brief echo in the throne room.

Shiro removes his boots one by one, toeing them off, then slowly strips off his socks and places them over the rest of his clothes—and just like that, he’s naked in the throne room, bared for the emperor’s exclusive gaze.

A gloved finger reaches to tip Shiro’s chin backwards, and Shiro silently locks eyes with him. The emperor’s pleased, Shiro can see, and the finger trails upwards to trail along his bottom lip, then slips briefly into his mouth before pulling out.

And then, with another flick of the emperor’s fingers, Shiro knows what’s expected of him.

He bends over the throne, as if bowing deeply, and the emperor examines him. Rather, Shiro can feel his eyes taking him in, then a leg moving forward to part his legs more apart, leading to a finger tracing flesh, as carefully as reading a prized map.

It pulls away, then there’s a soft click before the digit pokes once, teasingly, then pushes in.

“Your loyalty is boundless,” the emperor murmurs behind him. “You give yourself wholly to me and anticipate my needs, and it’s only fair I repay. It’s a custom on your Earth, is it not?”

Shiro keeps his mouth shut as the finger pushes further in, steady and sure. It prods him expertly, and Shiro can’t help the gasps that escape him, his fingers grabbing onto the edge of the throne, knuckles turning white. The strange coolness on his chest, his palms, do not deter from the pleasure brimming underneath his skin; he’s sure the emperor can hear his heart pummeling against his chest or labored breathing or even feel the flush underneath his gloves.

The emperor stretches him, adding more fingers, and Shiro resists the urge to move, to buck, to take advantage of the generously-offered, closing his eyes and biting the inside of his cheek in effort.

Finally, his fingers slip from him, and Shiro feels more curl around his hip, steadying him, bracing him, before the emperor pushes into him, slow and deliberate. He’s as good as pinned to the throne now, edges digging slightly into vulnerable skin. He can feel hands press him in further, just before the first thrust.

They’re, of course, steady and controlled, and Shiro bets that not one strand of hair is out of place before flushing at the picture: himself, bare and draped over the throne, and the emperor, fully clothed and coolly pushing inside. He wonders if the guards can hear, and turns to bite at his arm, sinking his teeth in, a muffled moan escaping him when the teeth dig in harder as the thrusts begin to quicken.

“I’ve watched you for years, and wanted you for just as long,” the emperor says lowly. “Still, I wanted to wait for the right time to have you like this, and it’s worth it, to me. Perhaps it is fate that brought you here, not just to my realm, but on my cock. I like this.” Another thrust causes Shiro to let out a sharp gasp. “I like this very much. Have you desired me, Shirogane? You may answer.”

“Yes,” he breathes. It’s all honesty, pulling from his chest like a gasp. “I’ve worshipped you from afar, and have desired you beyond all measure. I would travel across every universe to catch a glimpse of you, I would bleed on the stars for your safety, I would lay at your feet for eternity. I worship your eyes, as wondrous as the galaxies; I worship your mouth, as sweet as honey; I worship your hands, as clever as your thoughts. I worship you and you alone, my emperor.”

In response, the emperor presses deep, so deep that Shiro can feel a rush of heat in his gut, pouring into him and not making its way outside his thighs. Still, he almost wishes it would, to drip onto the throne, to leave a memory on the sacred metal that the Blades use for their weapons.

The emperor’s weight is still pressed on top of him, not pulling out, instead rubbing his hip with an idle finger. Shiro’s legs are getting numb, pleasantly tingly, and he feels strangely relaxed; he must have come and not noticed.

"You will attend to me from now on," the emperor orders, and Shiro's pleased to finally hear a catch in his voice. "You will undress me, bathe me, attend to my wounds if necessary. You will serve me in all things, if you wish.” 

Shiro imagines brushing the locks with a round brush like a handmaiden, combing oil through the sheen of hair before bending his head to begin the work of braiding. He will weave silver, or perhaps opals, depending on the occasion, as tenderly and studiously as polishing armor. He will have to be on his knees to property care for the expanse of hair, gleaming like silk and ornaments glittering like stars.

And he will be there every day and every night, by his side, grateful beyond measure. He will let the heavy raiment of armor and cloaks fall to the ground, divesting the emperor of his burdens, and he will lay back and allow the emperor to conquer every inch of his body, or else gladly do the task himself, each touch a note of worship. He'll smooth strands of hair off the emperor's brow, cover them both with silken quilts, and make his sleep as soundless and peaceful as a sunset. 

"I'm yours," Shiro says.

* * *

The afterglow is unlike anything Shiro’s experienced, even with all the fumbles in closets and offices and once—in one of the many Altean royal family’s bedroom. For one, he’s still sprawled like a cast-off scarf over the ancient Daibazaal throne, while beside him, there’s a steady rhythm of panting from below—he thinks from the steps.

"Was that okay? Did I hurt you?" 

"No," Shiro says, turning his head. "You never do. I liked it, _Emperor_." 

Keith flushes; it's so different from his stern leader countenance that Shiro smiles. "Do me a favor, and don't call me that in public." 

"It will be hard to, in speeches and such," Shiro says. 

"There should be no need for titles between us," Keith replies, deftly moving the conversation away. "You're my equal." 

"I'm not Galra by blood; I'm technically your consort," Shiro says practically.

While the Galra are now a little more progressive towards their ideas of bloodlines, Shiro’s complete and utter lack of Galra blood automatically disqualifies him from a royal title. In fact, if he didn’t have the Black Paladin and ambassador to Earth on his list of credentials, he’d effectively be a nobody, his public position determined solely by his relation to Keith. He's quietly amused by it, him being a trophy husband of sorts. 

“Still, I don’t intend for you to be idle,” Keith says. “And do far more important things than kiss babies and give boring speeches. If you want.” It’s his turn to flush, hair tumbling down his back, braids surely twisted into snarls. “I know how much you hate being in the spotlight. Hell, I don't want it. But if—"

"Keith," Shiro says firmly, "I didn't survive a war and die—how many times?—to lose you. Besides," he says lightly, "think about how awkward it would be for the next person who sits on that throne if we ran off now." 

Keith glances up at the throne and flushes a deeper shade of red. “Well. That's a good argument.” Then, "I have to hold meetings here, Shiro. The Galra, they can scent..." 

"So they'll know I'm yours," Shiro says. 

"You are," Keith says. They haven't had an official ceremony, but it's clear to anyone that they're it for each other. Maybe someday, there will be a grand party like Lance and Allura's, filled with swirling robes and complicated rituals and clicking cameras. Or it'll be a quiet little slip-away like his mom and Kolivan's, touching blades and weaving hair and silent vows. They both know with Keith’s position, he's obliged to make every detail of life public.

But Shiro doesn't worry about now. 

He knows they have to get up soon, that the coronation is tomorrow, that the day’s rehearsals and last-minute changes have scarcely begun. They’ll be lucky to see each other before bed, let alone after the ceremony. At least the paladins will be there, that Lance—a consort himself—is guaranteed to steal at least one of them away during the celebrations, that he can count down in his head for Keith’s speech that will allow them to retire politely. And—he reasons—most of the guests will be suffering from hangovers and more, so that’ll allow them time to sleep in.

“I’m yours,” Shiro echoes, voice louder in the room. “My emperor. My Keith.”


End file.
